Best 1141 quotes in «historical quotes» category

There are mercies, and there are mercies.

There are no more gates, only hinges clinging to the walls like broken spiders.

There is an abiding fear Bonaparte will invade England by way of a tunnel beneath the Channel. How ingenious! Why, had such a marvellous thing been in place, the Tsar might have spend to Dover in an open barouche instead of enduring the mal de mer!

The significance of the effect is determined by the importance of the immediate cause.

There were three wedding cakes, curious and historical but tasty, each labeled with a calligraphed card: "Plumb Cake" with currants, nutmeg, mace, cinnamon, salt, citron, orange peel candied, flour, eggs, yeast, wine, cream, raisins. Adapted from Mrs. Simmons, American Cookery, 1796. "Curran-cake" with sugar, eggs, butter, flour, currans, brandy. Adapted from Mrs. McClintock, Receipts for Cookery and Pastry-Work, 1736. "Chocolate Honeycake" with oil, unsweetened cocoa and baking chocolate, honey, eggs, vanilla, flour, salt, baking powder. Adapted from Mollie Katzen, The Enchanted Broccoli Forest, 1982.

These trials aren't about revenge. They're about justice. Don't you want justice, Rose Justice?

The soap opera was followed by a game show: money for nothing was coming back into fashion.

There was an exciting atmosphere about the place that uplifted her. It was as if she could actually feel the accelerated steady pulse of the town's heart beating in time with her own.

The weather in this land was quite unruly, and if you couldn't appreciate the many shades of gray, you had no business living in it. Alden Garrat Warrior Heart

The throbbing shimmy spread through my hips and thighs. I could have sworn my body started to glow as if light were shooting from my fingertips and each strand of hair.

The stiff night smells like the promise of coming rain, though its scent is doused by the strong odor of corn mash fermenting with yeast. Afar off a coyote howls, then a bit later a screech owl, and in between shivers and sighs of smaller night creatures.

The traditions of . . . bygone times, even to the smallest social particular, enable one to understand more clearly the circumstances with contributed to the formation of character. The daily life into which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before they are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has moral strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time comes - when an inward necessity for independent individual action arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Therefore it is well to know what were the chains of daily domestic habit which were the natural leading-strings of our forefathers before they learnt to go alone.

The whore or the saint: these seemed to be the prototypes set up by the Church's historic misogyny. But was there no alternative model to follow? Yes, for Anne had seen for herself that it was possible to be an independent thinker, set free from the pattern of sinful Eve or patient Griselda. She had been in the company of clever, strong-willed women like the Regent Margaret of Austria and Margaret of Navarre. The influence of evangelism had enabled women of character to take an alternative path, one that offered Anne Boleyn a different future.

The word "We" is as lime poured over men, which sets and hardens to stone, and crushes all beneath it, and that which is white and that which is black are lost equally in the grey of it. It is the word by which the depraved steal the virtue of the good, by which the weak steal the might of the strong, by which the fools steal the wisdom of the sages. What is my joy if all hands, even the unclean, can reach into it? What is my wisdom, if even the fools can dictate to me? What is my freedom, if all creatures, even the botched and impotent, are my masters? What is my life, if I am but to bow, to agree and to obey? But I am done with this creed of corruption. I am done with the monster of "We," the word of serfdom, of plunder, of misery, falsehood and shame. And now I see the face of god, and I raise this god over the earth, this god whom men have sought since men came into being, this god who will grant them joy and peace and pride. This god, this one word: "I.

Time is tick, tick, ticking away. How many souls will I capture today? Will they be a challenge or will they be given? Only time will tell as the clock keeps tick, tick, ticking. Your god has arrived with enough hatred for y’all, with enough evil for the big and small, so come one, come all. I will shred your souls and place them in my satchel, call you a settler and make you my peddler. Come one, come all, come stand behind your god. I will lead you into the darkness of Earth's end. Come one, come all, my wilted flowers, come claim your title, speak out and cheer it. Come one, come all, let’s have a ball, my wilted flowers . . . Sweet, Unconquerable Spirits.

The written word is greatest sacred documentation.

They say that history is going on somewhere. They say it won't stop. I have held One picture still for a long time and waited.

Thought you didn't like red hair." One of Drew's dimples kicked in as he draped an arm about Grandma's shoulder. "Must have me confused with someone else, but I'm not surprised. Seems to happen to most of the older set at some point or other.

They were magnificent all right, with the magnificence that can only grow in the ground of great foolishness.

Though the heart may be cracked wide, pain can still seep in.

We who have seen the truth will reshape the world, and Ireland shall be our entrance to this world beyond words.

Upon Hirotsugu’s birth, the Fujiwara clan made great plans for his future, and I watched from my throne of skulls behind the kagerō veil and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Were ye sent by the fairy folk? Do no' lie to me.

We think and believe that we are exceptional. We have created so many stories around how exceptional humans are. We were created by the hands of the divine, and the universe is our gift. We believe that it was all created to serve us, but the reality of the matter is, we are not exceptional except for our ability to kill beauty and destroy. We are not as fast as the gazelle or a cheetah; we can't fly like birds; we don't have fur to protect us in the cold; we don't have natural strength to lift heavy objects like a gorilla or an elephant. We created fables to explain our presence, even scientific ones that we can't prove. It is all unproven theories, on all sides. We are not exceptional; we are only exceptional when we work together and in sync with nature like every other creature.

What does freedom mean if we accept the fundamental premise that humans are social beings, raised in certain social and historical contexts and belonging to particular communities that shape their desires and understandings of the world?

Under the sanctuary are the catacombs where the dead wait for resurrection. The living do not venture there. The caverns here underneath the Sanctuary are illuminated only by dim shafts of light from the sanctuary. The walls are etched with flowers of frost, but at least I am out of the wind. Dark bays line the hall in front of me, a vast rabbit warren, each hold filled to the brim with the scent of the past.

Valentine reminds us that to be fully human is to be both a story teller and a story dweller." --- Christina Meldrum, author of Madapple and Amaryllis in Blueberry

Violate me?” He laughed, a black lock of hair falling in front of one eye. “That sounds delightful.

Watching him, his hands buried in his pockets—to keep from circling her neck she supposed—she couldn't help but marvel at the curious mix of Southern courtesy and male arrogance, the natural assumption he shouldered of being lawfully in control. "Engaging in a moral battle isn't always hazardous to one's health, you know." "Doesn't look like it's doing wonders for yours." "Saints be praised, it can actually be rewarding." Looking over his shoulder, he halted in the middle of the room. "Irish." "I beg your pardon?" "You. Irish. The green eyes, the tiny bit of red in your hair. Is Connor your real name?" "Yes, why..." she said, stammering. Bloody hell. "Of course." "Liar." She felt the slow, hot roll of color cross her cheeks. "What could that possibly have to do with anything?" "I don't know, but I have a feeling it means something. It's the first I've heard come out of that sassy mouth of yours that didn't sound like some damned speech." He tapped his head, starting to pace again. "What I wonder is, where are you in there?

We are exiles in Time's abyss, strangers now in the Promised Land.

What do we do if we come across trouble, sir?' Cahill asked, slapping at a fly. 'As much as I enjoy giving the rebel turds a walloping, it should be down to the Militia to keep the buggers in check.' 'They are doing their job,' Mullone said, glancing at a free-standing Celtic Cross that had once been a prominent feature beside the road, but was now strangled with weeds, besieged with dark moss and deeply pitted with age. 'If you call plundering, fighting and torture work, sir.' 'You don't have much faith in the peace talks then, Seán?' 'No, sir. There's more chance of me taking holy orders and becoming the Pope than there is of peace,' Cahill replied. 'The negotiations that spout from the politicians mouths are nothing but wet farts.

What do we do if we come across trouble, sir?' Cahill asked, slapping at a fly. 'As much as I enjoy giving the rebel turds a walloping, it should be down to the Militia to keep the buggers in check.' 'They are doing their job,' Mullone said, glancing at a free-standing Celtic Cross that had once been a prominent feature beside the road, but was now strangled with weeds, besieged with dark moss and deeply pitted with age. 'If you call plundering, fighting and torture work, sir.' 'You don't have much faith in the peace talks then, Seán?' 'No, sir. There's more chance of me taking holy orders and becoming the Pope than there is of peace,' Cahill replied. 'The negotiations that spout from the politicians mouths are nothing but wet farts.' -from Liberty or Death

What is deemed as “his-story” is often determined by those who survived to write it. In other words, history is written by the victors...Now, with the help of the Roman historian Tacitus, I shall tell you Queen Boudicca’s story, her-story……

Whatever befalls us, we will endure it together. I clutch my longbow and dagger close to my side. My last thoughts linger on my husband and my boy. I will not let harm come to either of them.

What violent, good luck you had. When you bought your home you received stolen property, but the blood had dried, the war forgotten, and it seemed your god himself had granted you this land.

What she knew was sand and wind and innumerable stars. The rumble in a camel’s throat as it swayed over shifting dunes, its trappings jingling in time with its steps beneath her. She knew the sting of thirst and the taste of dried fruit, the glare of sun and the frigid, bone-numbing cold of the air when the sun gave her throne over to the moon. She knew that, to survive, one must often revise one’s caliber, and one must completely depend upon Jesus Christ.

When he bowed his head to hide his grin, she stiffened. “This is most certainly not amusing.” He looked up, the humor still glittering in his eyes, and spoke one word. “James.” “Pardon me?” “James Lamont. It’s my name. You’ll need it if you’re to curse me properly.

When life disappoints, one must apply one’s will, not crumple.

When I read Sunshine’s book, it was a scary recalibration of my thought process and a refreshing re-pondering of lifelong ideas.” • Taken from the Foreword written by Evangelist Carl Harris

When looked at from the woman’s side of the bed-sheet, most tales take a turning.

When King John was angry, he threw himself down and rolled the floor, yelling and chewing the expensive oriental rugs that Crusaders had brought back from the East.

When one is busy, as she was in Donegal, life whistles by. One struggles to keep up with oneself. It is vital, when one slows down, to be conscious of small things, small moments. To take pains.

When the watermelons were as large as a child's head, the women boiled them, but they collapsed into a tasteless green mush that no one could eat, not the children, not the cow.

When we are reading, a voice comes to us as in the dark and whispers, "Imagine!" Samuel Beckett as told by Bill Moyer in the Foreword he wrote for, The Public Library: A Photographic Essay by Robert Dawson. Afterword by Ann Patchett

Where there’s life, there’s learning, and the truth is always calling us out of our pride. If we don’t harken, it will call louder, and throw a situation at us. A pebble at first. If we still don’t listen, we’ll get a stone. Then a rock. Then a great crashing boulder. We must learn, or die.

Where are you going?" "To get my Bible." "Right now? You can't get your Bible out right now! I'm, I'm, we're just about to..." She'd never be able to go through with this if he got out his Bible. She wiped all humor from her face. "I believe you. Proverbs 5:18. Rejoice, relish, and romp with your husband." He chuckled. "I'm serious, Connie, and I won't have you feeling ashamed or unclean over anything we do in that bed, tonight or any other night." "I won't. I feel unashamed and very clean. I promise. But please don't get out that Bible." "What? Think you that God can't see us right now?" Groaning, she slid off his lap and covered her face with her hands. He sunk to his knees in front of her, drawing her hands down. "I love you. You love me. We are man and wife. God is watching, Connie, and He is very, very pleased.

Women come more easily to that wisdom which ancient peoples, and all wild peoples even now, think the only wisdom.

While taste conveys the complexity of life, a good chef should keep in mind that food can have a meaning that is often not apparent but affects the palate nonetheless. For example, the "A1 sauce" is now very popular in America. I have tried it. It is very good. What is not understood is that when one takes a bite of a steak that has been smothered in "A1," as the sauce was proclaimed by King George IV, they are eating history. The combination of malt vinegar, dates, mango chutney, apples and orange marmalade all serve as a reminder that the United States was settled by England and will always be England's. The bold combination of malt vinegar and orange marmalade- England's lifeblood- and those flavors of England's conquered- mango from India and apples so strongly identified with America- cannot be ignored.

Why, on to the castle, to kill the royal family, and claim the throne that isn't mine by right!

Wicked eyes are not a good prospect for seminary boys. They want a gentle, soft sort of wife, not a wife who looks as though she may sprout wings and carry off the young children of the village. ~Maria "Smythe